


kingdom come

by irreputablyyours



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic Revealed, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irreputablyyours/pseuds/irreputablyyours
Summary: His magic is clearly out to get him sentenced to death and burned in a pyre.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 170





	kingdom come

Merlin is going to die. 

He's not particularly excited about it, but at this point it seems inevitable. His magic, one of the few things in life he’d thought to be on his side, is clearly out to get him sentenced to death and burned in a pyre. 

*

It starts small. Arthur is trying to find a secret passage, and Merlin is stuck playing sidekick, as usual. 

“I swear, the book _said_ there would be a secret passageway out of the castle right here!” 

“A book?” Merlin says casually. “Pardon me, Sire. I didn’t know you read.” 

“Oh, shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, “Why I couldn’t have got a manservant more useful than a dead toad I don’t know,” Merlin rolls his eyes. Arthur is a prat, even when he’s trying to find his way out of the castle in order to save a sickly girl that will die without the medicine Merlin has in his pocket. 

“If anything bad happens,” Arthur had told him, “Just get out of the way and pretend to be unimportant. Wait, I forgot, you don’t need to pretend,” He’d then gone on to add, like a jerk.

Merlin really detests how Arthur can do that, go from being a man with genuinely noble causes to an absolute prat of a prince who pushes people around and insults them just because he can. Because he’d seen the look on Arthur’s face when the girl’s mother had pleaded before the council, begging them to afford her girl the medicine she needed to survive, that she would pay them back within a winter. Remembers Uther’s cutting silence, how the rest of the council had laughed her down and sent her away without a second thought. “What type of peasant thinks themself so important?” One of the men had said, and another had replied, “Especially with the harvest being so thin this year.” 

Merlin had got angry, clenched his hands into fists and kept his eyes on the ground, forced himself not to pour wine into anyone’s lap. That had happened in Ealdor, when he was little. A boy he’d befriended for a few weeks had gone deathly sick with the fever, and they hadn’t even had enough to keep him well fed. 

He hadn’t expected _Arthur_ of all people to announce to him, completely out of the blue, halfway into the night, “Get that medicine from the storehouses, say it’s on my order. We’re going out,” like it was a fait accompli. Merlin’s known Arthur for months now, and sometimes he does stuff like this; _good_ things, things Merlin hadn’t thought him capable of when they met. 

He’s thinking about it as Arthur pries uselessly at the wall with his sword, clanking it against the bricks futilely. At this rate, the girl will die before they get out - she’d been on the cusp of death already when her mother came to plead her case. Arthur hits the wall again, saying, “Damnit, the only other way out is halfway across the castle. We’ll have to sneak by Lord Dowling’s chambers-”

Merlin feels a trickle of magic in the air, something brief and heady that seems far too similar to the feeling he gets when he uses his magic. 

And then a brick falls out. 

Arthur gapes. “How do you think that happened?” 

Merlin shrugs, trying to curb his panic and inner monologue of _I will not see the sun rise tomorrow,_ trying to come up with an excuse. “Perhaps you thudding the sword like a child made it come loose,” He grins a bit, trying for smarmy. 

Arthur nods absentmindedly, too busy reaching in to find a latch to open up a narrow wooden door. “Observant as always, Merlin,” He says mildly, and Merlin sighs in relief at not having been found out, before registering the insult and firing back, “At least I’m not a complete and utter _prat!_ ” 

They’re still bantering when they find the girl, and Merlin’s almost forgotten about the magic. 

*

Then it happens again. 

Merlin is standing at a banquet, leaning against the wall. His feet ache and the only interesting thing that’s happened in three hours is that Morgana has been glaring at Uther the entire time. Lord knows why, though he probably deserves it. 

Arthur is completely oblivious to this, focussed intensely on a conversation with a woman Merlin could swear he’s seen before. Maybe Arthur’s courting her. He seems interested, which is more than can be said about most of his conversations with women.

Merlin picks up a pitcher of wine, stepping forward to refill the glasses. Neither of them pay him any mind. One of the things he’s noticed about being a servant; you can become invisible without magic. 

“...And of course their battle strategy was no good, the Romans were ten times as well-armed as the Celts,” Arthur says, and when Merlin looks at him there’s this strange glimmer in his eyes, not magic but sheer passion, and Merlin kind of almost trips over himself. 

The woman seems similarly engaged. “But the Celts had _heart,_ ” She insists, and Arthur smiles. “It’s true; I can’t deny that it would have been interesting to see them win. They held out in Gaul for long enough.” 

Throughout the night Merlin slips back and forth to their spot on the table, listening to them discuss military history, and later on, literature and art and all the other things Arthur generally avoids admitting he is well-versed in. 

“They did bring philosophy when they came upon our land,” He says, in reference to the Romans, when the lady brings up Plato and Aristotle. “And we forget the stories they brought, too.” Merlin knows Arthur has a copy of _The Histories_ kept in his chambers, although most people assume it’s for show.

He comes back around one final time, after being called to bring food to a lord on the other side of the table. “But history is only useful should we learn from it,” Arthur is saying, and his expression is positively sparkling - Merlin contemplates mocking him. 

But what he says next keeps him from it. “The conquerors of old - Caesar, Scipio, Hannibal - they conquered with vengeance. They forgot the people who lived in the country, they treated them like pawns. In Camelot-” He starts, and Merlin feels the pause viscerally, feels the need to put _Albion_ in that sentence, “-We must do things differently.” 

The girl looks off, seemingly having lost interest once Arthur started in on his speech, but Arthur is no longer paying attention to her. He’s smiling at some distant point on the horizon, out the window and to the green fields beyond. 

There’s this immense feeling in Merlin’s heart, something so strong that he has no clue how to contain, and when he looks up at Arthur again there are shimmering vines curled around the prince’s wrists, blooming silver and gold. 

Arthur stutters, looking at the lady. “Lady Maricia?” He says, surprised but not yet angry. Magic is permitted in other kingdoms, and Lady Maricia is a foreigner. “I ask that you remove these - illusions - from my person. The gesture is…” Merlin can see him struggling for words, “...appreciated, but in Camelot we do not use magic.” 

Merlin reaches out with his magic and _tugs_ the vines away before Lady Mericia can respond, a stuttered, “Uh, yes, of course,” on her tongue. 

Merlin steals sips of the wine, trying to make himself forget, but this is the second time it’s occurred and it appears to be getting worse. There _has_ to be a way to keep his magic from manifesting itself in such a way. 

He’s the one who escorts Arthur back to his room when the night deepens, and Arthur appears to have drunk a fair bit of wine himself. As they leave, he grabs Merlin’s sleeve, and Merlin shoves down a thrum of panic. _Be still, there’s no way he could know it’s you,_ he tells himself, cursing internally. He has to find a cure for this, and quickly. 

Arthur looks him in the eyes. “Did you know,” He says, softly, “I had never seen magic be used for anything beautiful?” He grips Merlin’s wrist as he says it, fingers pressed warm against his skin, and Merlin swallows. 

From the look on Arthur’s face, the soft way he says it, Merlin almost wishes he didn’t have to find a way to fix this. 

*

It _keeps happening._ Merlin spends hours locked in his room, reading ancient tomes of Gaius’, sneaking about and trying to find something, _anything_ about it in the library. He comes up dead empty. There is absolutely nothing about magic simply _doing itself -_ magic requires immense amounts of concentration and willpower, can barely be done without spells and words. Even the most powerful of sorcerers require some sort of _intention._

He’s at the end of his rope when he asks Gaius. 

“The other day there were these - little brown things that appeared on his plate. Like-” He holds out one to Gaius, a half eaten thing the size of a circle between his thumb and his forefinger. “I tried it, and it tasted like _heaven._ ” It had been sweet enough to rot his teeth, creamy like fresh butter and flavoured like something that was similar to apples but a bit more sour. 

“There were _seven of them._ I tried to knock them off the tray, but they wouldn't budge until I brought them to Arthur,” He swallows, trying not to think of the way Arthur’s eyes went wide with awe when he’d tasted them, his lips parted and his pupils blown wide. “What _is_ this?” He’d asked, not mocking, just amazement, and Merlin had fumbled with the lie, said, “Some new experiment in the kitchens, I believe.” 

“We _have_ to get more,” Arthur had replied, touching a finger to his lips. 

Gaius looks at him curiously when he tries the - _thing._ “Your magic manifested _this_ ?” He asks, incredulous. Merlin gives him an equally flabbergasted shrug. “I’ve never even seen anything like it before! I don’t even try to do it! It just _does._ ” He wails, flailing his hands about in the air. He’s going to _die_ and it’s not even going to be Arthur’s fault. Well. It’s kind of his fault, for being noble and kind and occasionally in possession of more than one brain cell. Clotpole. 

Gaius looks at him, long and hard, with an expression that is somewhere between incredulity and amazement, and somehow that’s even worse than his _I can’t believe you’re still alive, you utter disappointment_ look that he usually gifts Merlin with when magic is involved. 

“I’ve never heard of anything like this before.” He pauses. “Except-” He picks up a scroll, shaking his head. “It’s unprecedented in the tomes, Merlin. The only thing I can think of is that perhaps Arthur’s making you feel very - strong emotions, of some kind, and your magic is reacting instinctively to that, without your permission.”

Merlin glances and his hands, wringing them with nerves. He thinks about how sometimes he’ll pick fights with Arthur just because he likes the feel of the Prince’s attention being focussed solely on him, how his hands linger when he dresses Arthur, to the point of being snapped at. He thinks of the jealousy that curls in his chest when he sees Arthur talking to those noble ladies, the eavesdropping instinct that makes him pretend his guests need far more wine than they do. He thinks of how, sometimes, he can _see_ how great of a king Arthur could be, if only he had a little push. He thinks of how Arthur sits alone in his room, all wrapped up with his plans for the kingdom, thinks of how he brushes off people because of his duties, thinks that sometimes, Arthur is a little bit lonely. Thinks that maybe he needs love, and that maybe Merlin wants to give it to him. 

“Feelings. I uh - yeah. Those things,” Merlin stutters out intelligently, and Gaius just _looks_ at him, eyes full of pity. “Yeah, maybe - fuck, can’t - I, maybe kind of - don’t know - love him? This is really bad news, isn’t it?” 

Gaius doesn’t say anything, but Merlin gets the feeling he agrees. 

*

Arthur’s armour is magnificently polished. His clothes sew themselves, coming back with little flourishes that even a tailor’s experienced hand would have a hard time adding. Flowers bloom when he walks by. The little treats, or ‘sweet creamy brown tart things’ as Arthur has taken to calling them, appear on his plate as Merlin brings it up for him. His wine is always perfectly aged. His sword shines brilliantly and is deadly sharp. 

One day, he talks at the council, and the candlelight goes from a dull yellow burn and to bright gold, sparks of silver-white-blue light popping up on the map at the points he wishes to emphasise. A shimmer of silver dances across his skin, light glittering around him. All the room’s attention goes to him, undivided, and Merlin notices a lily crawling up around his boot. 

For about three minutes, everyone is enraptured by what he says, taking in his proposal- added border patrols on the edge Cendred’s kingdom, an increased military programme with better training - and Merlin feels like he’s _glowing,_ like the future is spread around his fingertips and all he needs to do is just reach out and _take it._

Then it all falls apart.

The council erupts into panic, screams of _sorcery_ and _magic_ and _hang him!_ and _who did that?_ And all Merlin can think is, _please don’t let them think it’s Arthur please please please please please._

But they do. 

*

Merlin didn’t think Uther would put his own son on trial. Merlin thought he would make an exception. Merlin thought, maybe, they would get away. 

But there were witnesses, ten men of noble descent, and even Uther cannot bend the law that far. 

The trial is brutal. And at least Arthur _is_ afforded a trial, which is more than would be given to a peasant. 

“Arthur Pendragon,” Uther proclaims, and Merlin can see the pain in Uther’s eyes, the way he winces at the last name. He almost feels sorry for him. But he brought it upon himself. It would be ironic if it were not like a _fucking knife being stabbed into Merlin’s ribcage._

“You are accused of practicing magic.” 

Arthur speaks before he is spoken to, livid mad in a way Merlin has never seen him before. 

“I did _not,_ ” He insists, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Fath- King Uther, never in my life would I practice such a heinous crime, such a perversion against the laws of nature. I take it that my word must stand for something, and I beg you, if it does, _believe me._ I would give everything I have for Camelot, my whole heart and body and soul, _everything._ Never in my _life_ would I break its most important tenants.” 

And it _hurts,_ to see Arthur speak so badly of magic. All Merlin wants - all his magic ever seems to want - it to protect him, keep him from harm, bring him strange and wonderful things. All _Merlin_ ever wants is to help him, to save him. 

Save him. Of course, he thinks bitterly. He’ll give it two minutes, and then he’ll admit everything, and this time Arthur won’t be able to make excuses for him. 

“Different lords have seen the way magic seems to follow you about like a plague. There are - strange things happen to you, Arthur, do you recall when you were talking to Lady Maricia?” 

Arthur’s eyes go wide, and he nods, still saying, “But that was her - magic, some sort of spell. She must have cast one upon me, some sort of enchantment.”

Uther pauses, and then, like a man grasping a last lifeline, nods. “It could be. We shall have to discuss this issue with her kingdom and family. Until then-” He flourishes a hand, “-You must be guarded.” 

Merlin almost passes out with relief. For a second, he thought he might have to admit the truth. 

And it scares him, because he would’ve. Would’ve died for Arthur, no hesitation. 

*

“It must have been Lady Maricia,” He hears Arthur say for three whole weeks straight, bitching about magic and humiliation and how sorcery is the most heinous of crimes and he can’t believe they would accuse him of it. Merlin keeps his mouth shut, resists the urge to say, _well, you did have sparks coming from your fingers and you were glowing and all,_ but his throat is too closed up from fear and hurt, and he supposes it doesn’t matter anyways. 

Eventually Camelot does reach Lady Maricia, coming to the agreement that she will release Arthur from his ensorcellment, a guilt probably accepted in the name of no one believing her innocence, and their kingdom wanting to keep the peace with the significantly-stronger Camelot. The magic fades, because Merlin finds it hard to love Arthur when he’s not only being a prat and a bully but also insulting the thing that makes up the very fabric of his being. 

*

Time passes and the whole ordeal is left in the dust. Lords begin to look at Arthur without suspicion, the servants no longer scramble to avoid him, and all is pardoned, except that Merlin feels like he’s dragging a three-ton stone around with him wherever he goes. He feels like this will go on forever, like there’s no end to the secrets he’ll have to keep, the things he’ll have to leave in the silence. It churns about in him, rage and fear and panic and this sheer sense of _love_ that even now he can’t do away with. It’s driving him insane, to the point of wanting to leave, to run as far as his feet will take him. 

*

It all comes to a head a week later. Merlin is setting up a fire in the evening, trying for the millionth time to get the bloody sticks to just _spark_ for heaven’s sake, while Arthur rustles about on his bed, picking grapes off of a tray. 

“You haven’t been yourself recently,” He says, and Merlin bites his lip. 

“Would insulting you more make me more in character, Your Highness?” 

He doesn’t see Arthur’s expression and he tells himself he doesn’t want to. For a while, neither of them say anything, even when Merlin gets the bloody fire going. 

It’s quiet and the dark is just setting in when Arthur murmurs, “I’m sorry you had to see me tried for sorcery, Merlin. I - I can see why that might upset you.” 

“What?” Merlin exclaims. His heart jackhammers in his chest. Arthur can’t possibly-

“A real prince I must be, getting tried for one of the worst crimes in the land. I can imagine that would’ve been a bit of a blow to your faith in me.” He glances aside. His hands are clenched in his lap, his eyes downcast, glittering in the firelight. 

It takes Merlin a minute to process. For a second, he’s so fucking _mad,_ that Arthur would think that of himself, of _Merlin -_ that he would insult magic, that he-

“Arthur,” Merlin says, knowing it sounds like a plea, all his frustration and affection and passion mixing into those few words. “There is _nothing_ that - nothing that could make me-” 

His magic does the rest. One minute, they’re standing in a cold room in the winter, huddled around the fire, and the next they’re in a bright field, gardens of roses and white carnations blooming around them, a dappled canopy of trees surrounding them, a sparkling stream near their feet. Over the crest of a hill he can see - a towering marble castle, fields abundant, villages that dot the way.

For a moment, Arthur looks at him, and he is simply - shocked. 

Then; “I - you - what - _Merlin-_ you’ve been-” He pauses, gathers his thoughts. When he looks up there’s rage in his eyes.

“I-” Merlin pauses, and then thinks the better of it. “This is what happens when I think of you, Arthur,” He says, helplessly, waves a hand to their surroundings; the bright sunlight and the baby blue sky, the rolling fields and the grand castles. “I swear, I - I’ve never used it to harm you, to harm Camelot, everything I’ve done was to keep you safe-” 

Arthur takes a long look, doesn’t seem to hear anything Merlin says. He’s just agape, and for a second he pauses, something soft in his eyes. Then he looks back to Merlin, and it hardens. 

“Take us back,” He says, and Merlin whispers, “Okay.” 

*

“Are you going to kill me?” 

“Could I?” Arthur says, betrayal evident in his tone. Merlin pauses. 

“...I would let you.” 

He can’t fathom the way that Arthur’s looking at him, like he’s the strangest entity to have happened upon this earth. There’s another long bout of silence that weighs on him like a stone, until eventually Arthur speaks. Just one plain word. 

“Why?” He asks, and in it Merlin hears both _why did you betray me_ and _why do you trust me so?_

He shrugs. “Because I’m selfish,” He says, because it’s true. “I didn’t want to die, and I never want to leave you.” It hurts to say, leaves him feeling strung out like a rag doll, but any defense he could’ve made his magic took from him. It’s the truth, and if Arthur doesn’t like it, well, that’s his fucking problem. 

Arthur looks at him, and says, “Go,” in the smallest of voices. 

Merlin does. 

*

He expects not to see the sun rise that next morning. He expects Uther’s wrath and the feel of flames on his throat. Expects death and all its comforts, expects to never see Arthur smile again. 

None of those things happens. He wakes up the next day, confused and hurt but still alive, and he trudges hesitantly across the castle to Arthur’s rooms to wake him up. Arthur yells at him, picks fights that Merlin responds to halfheartedly. He doesn’t say a word about the magic.

At the end of the day, when Merlin is about to leave early and try to clear his head, Arthur says his name. Merlin’s got one foot out the door - he could pretend to not have heard - but something compels him to turn around. 

“I won’t pretend to understand,” Arthur says, elbow on his knee, eyes to the floor, shadows flickering over his face. “I won’t pretend I… won’t pretend that it’s easy for me, because it isn’t. It _hurts,_ to think that you lied to me, but...I can see why you might. I am...not the best person to place your trust into, when breaking the law.” He laughs bitterly. “And I won’t pretend to like it, either, Merlin. Maybe...maybe your magic can do good, but I’ve seen far too many people use it for evil.” He pauses again. 

“But...maybe you…” He trails off, and Merlin looks into his eyes and sees that same love in Arthur’s eyes, the same one Merlin nurses like a broken dream. “I believe you can do good, Merlin. That you _are_ good. And I-” He straightens his spine, looking more a king that Uther could ever hope to, “-I will not have good men hanged.” 

He looks Merlin straight in the eye, and then, without hesitation, places a hand on Merlin’s wrist and draws him close. “Nor will I have my friends hanged, for anything,” He says, lips slowly curving up into a smile. 

A small silver ring blooms from a wisp of mist, and Arthur stares at it, shocked. Merlin shrugs when he looks up. “It does that without me asking with you,” He says. Arthur smiles softly, and Merlin finds himself smiling back as a similar ring appears in his palm, glinting in the candlelight.

 _For Camelot, for Albion,_ it reads, engraved in fine letters on the inside, an inconspicuous silver band otherwise. He waits. 

Arthur grins, and slides it onto his finger. “We’ll match,” He says, still hesitant but there’s belief in his eyes, something that steals the breath straight from Merlin’s lungs. 

He picks up the ring, and puts it on. “Yes,” he says, and thinks, _I love you._

One day, he’ll say it.


End file.
